The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, January 6, 2023

The Need Is So Great

Sometimes I just sit like this at the window and watch the darkness come. If I’m smart, I’ll put on Bach.

I’m thinking now of how far it always seems there is to go. Maybe it is too easy that I speak so often

of late last light on a December day, of that stubborn grass that somehow still remains green

behind the broken chain link fence on the corner. But the need is so great for the way light looks

as it takes its leave of us. We say what we can to each other of these things,

we who are such thieves, stealing first one breath and then the next. Bach, keep going

just this slowly, show me the way to believe that what matters in this world has already happened

and will go on happening forever. The way light falls on the last

of the stricken leaves of the copper beech at the end of the block is something to behold. 

 

--Jim Moore

 

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